7

Do not be afraid; our fate cannot be taken from us; it is a gift.

—Dante Alighieri

Luke glanced up and down the dimly lit cobblestone street. The night air clung to his face and clothing. He approached an alcove beneath a painted, hanging sign which read Pensione di Francesca. He knocked on the wooden door before him. Almost immediately, it swung wide, revealing a slight woman with salt and pepper hair, big espresso-colored eyes and small red lips.

“Dante.” Francesca smiled and opened her arms wide in greeting. “Buonanotte. For what reason do I have this pleasure?” The sides of her eyes crinkled like accordions as she rose up on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Who is this?” As if only now noticing he carried Savannah, she reached into one of the pockets of her navy skirt and removed a pair of spectacles. “More charity, Dante mio?”

“No, signora.” He dipped his head, entering her small hotel lobby. “She fell asleep in my arms. It has been a trying night. Would you mind if I let her sleep a bit?”

The older woman shook her head. “Of course not. You may lay her on the bed in my room, as it is closest.” She turned and led him to a cozy room with cream colored walls and a double-sized bed covered with a burnt orange quilt. Paintings and relics of the Virgin Mary adorned the walls. He had to credit Francesca’s taste. Each painting was startlingly unique with bold colors and a distinct essence of style.

He placed Savannah in the middle of the bed then slid off her shoes. “Perhaps an hour or two will do her some good.”

Francesca pushed Savannah’s hair back from her face. “To say she is a pretty woman doesn’t do her justice.” She met his gaze. “She is beautiful. Where did you find her?”

As always, surprised at how comfortable he felt around Francesca, he hesitated. If he did not take care, he would easily tell her everything about himself and most assuredly lose her friendship. “She is visiting Italy from the Americas.”

She nodded, placed her hand on Savannah’s forehead then slowly pulled away. “Come join me in the living area. We shall let her sleep and you can tell me why you’ve taken a sudden interest in making me Mother Teresa.” She passed a carved hall table with a small crystal lamp, stopping to pick up a mug. “Don’t mind me. I was in the midst of drinking some tea.”

“Please.” He lifted an arm to signal she walk ahead. “I daresay you stretch the truth by referring to Mother Teresa.”

Francesca wove over to a large velvet chair, its mauve color faded with wear and tear. She grinned back at him as she placed her mug on a side table, slid off her spectacles and slipped them into her skirt pocket before seating herself in the chair. “I do exaggerate a bit. I quite enjoy the young couple you sent me, Giulia and Paolo. There is hope for them.”

He nodded, releasing a long sigh. He was glad to hear he made the right choice in releasing the pair.

“So what brings you to my door tonight, besides the woman? It’s been a long time since you’ve visited or requested a new piece for your collections.” She bent and rubbed her knees. “Too long if you ask me. These knees of mine ached less only months ago.”

Luke slowly took a seat on a worn sofa next to her. Francesca’s dark eyes watched him expectantly as her small lips curled up slightly in a smirk. He imagined she’d been a beautiful woman during her prime. Older, she possessed a sort of frail elegance. “I fear I have missed you.”

Francesca laughed, reached over and rubbed his leg. “Always charming, Dante mio.”

“Some would disagree but I shall accept the compliment regardless.”

She scooted forward in her chair. “Is tonight a night of truths, business or pleasantries? Since I heard you recently acquired the Mortuaria Benedictus, I must believe it to be either truths or pleasantries.” She reached for her tea and sipped from the mug.

Luke smiled and looked down at his hands. Of course Francesca would be informed of his latest purchase. As an art dealer and collector herself, she kept abreast of everything within the art world. “Actually, it can be all three. Art is passion but there is always the right price.”

“Mortuaria Benedictus is a beautiful piece,” she said.

“I agree. Speaking of pieces, have you acquired any new ones?” He scanned the cozy living room. Several Renaissance paintings hung on the walls, their colors rich compared with the faded state of the gold wallpaper. A painting of a woman with golden hair and gray eyes caught his attention. She wore jewels throughout her hair and her dress fell from one shoulder, revealing the swell of a creamy breast. “The oil there is a new one, is it not?” He nodded at the painting of the fair woman.

“Yes,” she replied. “The daring in her expression spoke to me. Reminded me of a younger version of myself. But let’s get back to your purchase. You changed topics too quickly. I’ve seen Mortuaria Benedictus several times before. It has a special meaning behind it. I’d almost say it’s destiny you found it.”

“You are not going to start with your fortune-telling rubbish, are you?”

Francesca frowned. “I never tell you rubbish. Just because you don’t believe it, doesn’t mean it isn’t true.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I still insist and will always insist you are my perfect Dante.”

Smiling, he shook his head. “Since I met you, you have called me that name. Decades have passed and I fail to see how I am the perfect Dante. Then again, it’s been a while since I’ve read The Divine Comedy.”

“Well you should spend some time re-reading it.” Francesca pushed herself to her feet and came to stand before him. Hands cupping his face, she drew him close. “You’d understand it more when I tell you she will lead you to purgatory and only through her will you find your personal paradise. The woman you brought here is your Beatrice. I can see it clear as day.”

He placed his hands over hers, reveling in the aged feel of her skin, as it reminded him of what he would never have. “How I wish I could believe you but I am almost positive you are mistaken. I admit she is different, she makes me laugh, but it will take much more than a few light moments to save me.” He bent his head into her hands. If anything, the past few weeks had been more difficult. Each day he refused to kill pushed him further into despair’s depths.

She shrugged and backed away, sat back in her chair. “You’ve always been stubborn, but you shall see for yourself.”

Luke lifted his gaze. His thirst overwhelmed him and his eyes must be burning a deep burgundy. They never spoke about what he was. Usually, he preferred to avoid the subject, but tonight was different. “Why is it you have never feared me?” he asked. “I always hesitate to say too much and yet I have the feeling you know everything anyway.”

Francesca smiled and shook her head. “Not everything. I’ve always wondered whether you’d ever ask me that, though. I used to spend hours thinking what I’d tell you.”

Stomach churning, he anticipated what she would say. “And?”

“Frankly, I’m too old to care now.” She laughed softly. “And I know you. You’d rather take your own life than kill an innocent, but you put yourself in danger going this long without appeasing your hunger. You are a vampire. You must drink blood and you must kill. The predator within demands it as the price for your freedom. You may not believe yourself free but it could be worse.”

She was right but the words still were not easy to hear. “You know too much, Francesca. I worry for your safety at times.”

“I’m no threat to your kind.” She crossed her right leg over her left. “At best I’m an aged meal.”

Luke smiled at her bluntness. “More like a fine vintage wine.”

“Ah, yes.” She laughed. “This I prefer to believe.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I cannot explain the restlessness inside me. Why does my thirst for blood and death grow stronger? What wrong am I committing?”

Francesca met his gaze. Laughter left her face and her eyes glistened beneath the dim lights. “Surrender. If you can do this, you’ll leave an old woman with less sleepless nights.”

No doubt she spoke the truth. For as long as he had known her, Francesca had fretted over him. At times, she reminded him of the way a mother should be. His mother had not had a true worried bone in her body. “You should not be losing sleep over me anyhow.”

She lifted her chin, a defiant gesture, if he were to guess. “It’s my nature to worry.”

Luke ran a hand through his hair. Perhaps Francesca was right, but surrender meant trust. Could he learn to trust again? And even if he did, what would he give up? “I will try to do as you ask.”

She nodded. “There is hope for you yet.”

He stood, lifted Francesca’s hand and kissed the top of it. “Tonight was a pleasure. I shall try not to stay away too long this time, but I believe it best if I take her before she awakens.”

“Yes, I agree,” she said. “I would hate to lie to such a lovely innocent and unless you are ready to reveal yourself, I assume I don’t have a choice?”

Francesca tested her boundaries, but he would not let up. He could not afford to reveal himself, not yet, anyhow. And he was not so sure Savannah was the innocent she pretended to be. “I appreciate your understanding.”

She bowed her head. “Perhaps there will be another time for us to meet.”

“Yes, perhaps,” he replied. “For now, please excuse me. Goodnight, Francesca.” He turned and left the room.